Memories
by chromeknickers
Summary: Memories are a way of holding onto the people you love, the way you are, and the moments you never want to lose. - A collection of Cloud/Aerith drabbles.
1. To Honour A Memory

_This collection of drabbles represents Cloud's past, present, and future with Aerith – seen through theirs and others' eyes. Told in no particular order, most drabbles rely heavily upon memories and dreams, as opposed to real (present) interactions. And while names are almost never mentioned, you should be able to tell whose point of view is being expressed in each drabble. If not, I'll mention who in my author notes. _

_Enjoy. _

* * *

_From Cloud's PoV . . ._

* * *

**To Honour A Memory**

She was always so free with her words, like her heart.

_Why can't you forgive yourself? _

But he has never been so liberated, so open with his emotions. His bruised heart is heavy, burdened by guilt and regret.

_But . . . I let you die._

And he cannot help but dream about her or see her in his waking thoughts. She is always on his mind, blurring the line between what's real and what's imagined. She is a reminder of his sins and the key to his salvation.

_You came. Even though you're about to break. That's a good sign. _

He is obsessed with her – bent on living for a memory alone, honouring it. Without that memory, he isn't sure where he'd be. Perhaps even more lost than he is now.

_Why do we have to lose out to a memory?_

He feels the repercussions, good and bad, of his obsession long after he wakes, long after he returns to reality. He knows he should move on from her, but he can't. She has become a part of his soul, and he wonders if she's always been there, or if she's something of his own creation, spun out of nothing from the middle of the Lifestream. His heart races at the thought of her there waiting for him.

_So . . . why did you come?_

Why does he keep coming back to her? Why does he keep going on even though he's given up? Is it for himself? Is it for her?

_I think . . . I think I want be forgiven. More than anything._

The days have begun to feel so much like falling, like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach and his heart has lodged up in his throat. Part of him is afraid to wonder what would happen if she answered him, if she forgave him.

_I never blamed you. Not once. _

He imagines all the different places they've been together, the different lives they've lived together in the abyss, in the Promised Land. But in his memories, in his dream, she is only a projection. It's her, but it's not. Her skin's not warm enough, her face not nearly as defined or lovely.

_You came for me.  
_

He finds himself wanting more, _needing_ more.

_That's all that matters. _

She has left an ache in parts of him that he hadn't even known were empty. She has softened a heart that he once thought was frozen. Unused. Unfeeling.

_I'm not alone. _

And that is when he realises that he cannot live without her.

_Not anymore. _

**-x-**

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**Author's notes:** The sentences in italics are lines takes from Aerith and Cloud in _Advent Children_, with exception to _"Why do we have to lose out to a memory?"_, which was addressed to Cloud by Tifa.


	2. Soul Mates

_From Aerith's PoV . . ._

* * *

**Soul Mates**

He's lean and wiry beside her in bed, and she runs her fingers over the ridges of muscle and bone, memorising every arch, every angle of him until they meet again.

Idly, she wonders if he will ever recognise his dream-spun world for what it is: the Lifestream, their Promised Land. Sometimes she wants to tell him, even though it might mean that he'd give up on the real world and try to join her below. But she can't bring herself to take away his future, no matter how much she loves him, no matter how much she wants him to be there with her. Instead, she waits patiently for him, knowing that he will come back to her – knowing that he needs to. For now, she is content to play out his fantasies . . . for they are hers, too.

He murmurs her name in his sleep, and she smiles. So often is she distracted by the smoothness of his face at this hour when he is asleep. His hair is a mess across his forehead, spiking upward in every-which direction against the pillow. His eyes are closed and peaceful, but what really gets to her most is the absence of the little creases between his eyebrows. It transforms his whole face into someone else, someone younger and less hunted than the soldier she knows. He is at peace.

Alone with him, she sees the man that he is and the man that he will become. She knows now that she had always been searching for him, before she even knew what she was searching for. And she accepts him – accepts him for who he is and what monsters lurk in his past. There are no walls between them, no borders that cannot be crossed. He loves her, completely, and she returns that love selflessly because she knows that he is the one.

They used to scare her – her feelings for him – but now she accepts them for what they are, and she is seized by this marrow-deep need to coexist with him, to be a part of him. Really, it's quite a bit more than just coexistence at this point, but it's messy and wonderful and the boundaries are a little sketchy and she has no better word for it except . . . except that he is her soul mate.

She glances back down at him, drinking in his image. The line of his pelvis is sharp where the sheets pool around him, and she follows his contours with her fingertips, delighting in the wave of shivers that arcs beneath his skin. He stirs, shifting onto his side, and opens his eyes. Deep blue meets green. They are eyes filled with longing and love. Contentment.

He used to never look at her in this way. Always were his eyes cast downward and away. Eyes full of shame and regret, he had kept her at a distance. Yet, he was always searching for her, for her love, for her light – his light. She is his heart, and he knew that he had to protect her, always.

He props himself up on his elbow and lifts his hand to touch her cheek. She murmurs his name, soft sounds against his skin, and he pulls her in close, as if he could protect her from himself. He cups her face with his hands and takes in her scent before lowering his lips to hers. His long lashes flutter against her cheeks, and she sighs as his lips brush against her, so gentle yet bruising, numbing her senses. She pushes her fingers through his dishevelled hair, and his grip on her tightens. The kiss deepens, and he seals her name against his lips.

She is his, and he is hers. The way it was always meant to be.

* * *

**Author's notes: **This drabble was written for Syynn (Animefan111).


	3. This Is Love

_From Cloud's PoV . . ._

* * *

**This Is Love**

Her presence is as much a comfort to him as it is immense pressure weighing on his chest. She is his breath while he's left gasping for air; she is his sins that condemn and crush him beneath the stones of regret. And he finds himself longing for the pain just so that he can see her again, hear her voice again.

He dreams of flowered meadows and church tops and dappled sunlight shinning across her lovely face. She's dressed in white, and he slides reverent hands over like a whisper through a delicate silence. The fluid folds of her dress cling to her small frame, draping down her legs like water. He traces the fabric's edges with fingertips that skim along the low dip at her back. Her hair is loose from its braid and falls around her face like a fiery halo, woven through by the calloused fingers holding her still.

Her kiss is long and hot and languid on his lips, and from there it's all a tangle of hesitant hands and shed clothing and shifting gravity that pulls them close and sets their world on fire. Heat rises between them, licks at their skin, and spreads its sweet torture beneath this slow-burning haze. He is shy at first, reverent in her beauty, and then impatient. She catches his wrists and gently brings his hands to her waist. She slides her palms up his sides and down his chest, working his armour away until there is nothing between them but naked flesh.

Her body is pressed against his, thrumming with life, and he aches to pin her up against the wall and take her there, right now. But this dream is not the place, and he knows he would rather love her softly and slowly, kissing her until her breath comes short and ragged. He wants to worship her, his angel of light.

Her pulse beats rapid and staccato, and he pushes the straps of the dress down over her shoulders and layers kisses on the skin he reveals. Her slender fingers clench onto his shoulders and pull him in closer, her soft lips seeking his. He wants to feel her love against his lips, against his skin, beating against his heart.

His sword and armour lie forgotten on the floor. She is the only real thing left in his life, pressed up close as he leaves hot open-mouthed kisses on her throat. And as he eases her back into the mattress, she sighs into his hair, and he knows. He knows.

_This_ is love.

**-x-**

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**Author's notes: **This drabble was written for Syynn (Animefan111), again. I hope it's finally getting hot enough for you. ^_~


	4. Living A Lie

_This is from Tifa's PoV, with "her" (in italics) obviously referring to Aerith . . ._

* * *

**Living A Lie**

He's up early – too early – but despite his dreamless night (he hadn't moaned _her _name), there seems to be a heavy rush of adrenaline singing in his veins, like fear screaming through a dying man's head. They have guests over – the old gang – and she makes him rest with her in his room. She knows he doesn't want to be there. He wants to retreat to _her_ church, to sleep on a floor of flowers. But he has promised her he'd try – try to live for them and not just a memory.

He sits up, and the brush of skin against skin sets her every nerve alight. He seems to feel it too, double-taking, just to be sure who he's touching. Is he disappointed? She is on her side with her eyes closed, trying to appear fast-asleep. Her fingers are tangled with his, and through the small slits in her eyes, she can see him frowning, pulling his hand away. It is too intimate a gesture for a man like him to wake up to, at least with her . . .

She fights to keep her eyes closed, and dry. She imagines him breaking her, ruining her and taking everything from her. And then what? Apologise? No, that isn't his style. He keeps her at a distance for a reason. He is still in love with _her_. He will always be in love with _her_.

In the real world, he mostly wants to run away – to run away from life and its responsibilities. Run away to _her_ . . . But right now, he can't. It's his bed and his room and his arm that he can't seem to unfasten from her body. And she finds herself hating him for it all – for his nobility, for his honour, for his devotion.

The green monster growling in her stomach says to hell with it; sure, he's chosen _her_, but you're here for him now and if you fall, he's falling with you. But she knows that she can't make him love her. Even if she could have him physically, she would never have his heart or his mind or his soul. It would all be a lie.

Suddenly, she wants to sit up and scream. She wants to ask him how long he intends to pretend – pretend that he is living his life, that he is moving on. He has forgiven himself, but he has not forgot _her_. She suspects that he never will. How can he possibly love her if his heart belongs to another woman, has always belonged to another woman.

But when she thinks of giving in and letting him push her away completely, forever, she can't do it. Her heart aches, and it may just condemn her all the same. There is no answer that will not end in wreckage for them both. She's been jealous all her life of people blessed with his kind of singular devotion, his unwavering loyalty. And she's always wanted to be on the receiving end of that kind of love. The kind of love that transcends life and death. Love, eternal.

But she would never know that kind of love, not with him. No, she would have to live the lie with him. She would have to pretend.

**-x-**

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**Author's notes: **While it may suggest that Tifa and Cloud have a physical relationship, this is not so. Perhaps, at one point, Tifa would have thought it healthy, to help him move on; however, such a relationship would only wreck them both. They cannot live the lie, and that's what makes this drabble so sad.


	5. Head Space

_From Cloud's PoV, with the lines in italics belonging to his "conscience" . . ._

* * *

**Head Space**

Things were supposed to get easier – _life_ was supposed to get easier – but they haven't. At least not for him. The others have moved on, laying her memory to rest, but he can't seem to get past her death.

_You mean you _won't_._

Everything is grey now. Nothing is black and white anymore. Nothing is simple. He's not sure if there was ever a time he believed that it could be. But it's different in his dreams – a place that holds so much anger and guilt and . . . love. In his head, there's only him and her. Sometimes there's _him_, but she always wins out in the end.

_Hmm. Always?_

It's all so strange and familiar. Their images seem splinter in his mind like shards of glass put together to form a puzzle. But it's incomplete. Sometimes he's sure he can hear their voices buried deep within, but he dismisses the ideas. Someone like himself should be used to sharing head space.

When his mind gets too crowded and his thoughts become too jumbled, he wonders if there's a way for him to draw them inside and distance himself from them – to keep his thoughts his own. Is there a way for them to coexist and still allow him to hold onto some minuscule piece of himself? Or are they him? The lighter and darker halves of himself?

_If you were a gambling man, who would you bet on winning out?_

His thoughts are frayed and he feels like abandoning it all, but then her voice comes through like a promise too delicate to say aloud. And it gives him strength. For all his words of moving on and laying her memory to rest, he can't seem to prevent losing a little more of himself to her each day.

_But she's stealing things you'll never get back—_

He has to remind himself that she's not real, but most times he forgets (more often than he'd like to admit). When he wakes, he tells himself that she's nothing more than a projection. Her details are a little too foggy, her body too vague where his memories fail to flesh it out. She's not real; she's not _his_.

_Don't be silly. I'm waiting for you . . ._

But he is slowly beginning to realise that this isn't quite true – that she _is_ real and not just some manifestation of his guilt. She's waiting for him – waiting on a promise . . .

_When you're ready, I'll be here._

And so he finds himself torn – torn between his obligations to the living and his commitment to a memory. But he knows that in the end the memory will win out because he wants nothing more than to pretend that she is his reality. He wants to be forgiven, and he wants to lose himself in her more than anything – more than what this life has to offer him.

_How can you be sure that this is not your reality?_

He can't ever be sure of anything anymore. But he knows that she's more than a dream. She's more than a memory . . .

—_And so am I._

**-x-**

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**Author's notes: **I was going to write my Sephiroth drabble, but I wasn't feeling _evil_ enough. Instead, I wrote another brooding, guilt-ridden Cloud 'cause, hey, that's how he rolls. It's not my best work, but it seemed necessary to my arc (which is not in chronological order at all). I guess it's because it supports my view that Aerith and Sephiroth coexist in Cloud's conscience.

Incidentally, this takes place in between FFVII and _Advent Children_ – before Cloud contracts Geostigma. This is Cloud beginning to realise that Aerith and Sephiroth are more than just a memory; they are not only a part of his subconscious but his conscience as well.


	6. Save Point

_Another Cloud PoV drabble, but this one is fluffy and from the past . . ._

* * *

**Save Point**

Sometimes he finds himself missing Nibelheim. Other times, he longs to return to Aerith's church in the slums, just to sit in the pews and watch her while she tends to her flowers.

He has never in his life experienced anything as singularly draining as these past few month travelling across the world have been. The nature of his quest, what he must do, has made him nervous. Aerith has made him nervous. His own head has made him nervous. He thinks it's impressive he's made it this far without developing a rainbow of ulcers. Or maybe he has and he's just been stuffing his gullet with enough potions to negate their effects.

They take a break at Costa del Sol. Everyone hits the beach while Aerith convinces him to rent a villa from some mook he'd sooner cross the street than look at. Once inside, she orders him to take a nap, and he obeys. Like always. He's only closed his eyes for a moment before he hears singing. _Loud_ singing. Bad, _off-key_ singing.

He gets up and makes his way toward the bathroom, the source of the abysmal racket. And there she is, dressed in a two-piece bathing suit with her hair down. The music's on full volume, although her voice is drowning out any semblance of key or pitch, and she's dancing in front of the mirror, singing into a hairbrush. It's not as if he's made any sort of effort at being covert. She's just that oblivious to his presence and keeps right on singing.

He laughs softly to himself and crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He finds himself thinking a number of less-than-pure thoughts as he admires her slight form shimmying around the small room. He'd put money on her taking at least until the song is over to notice him leering at her with what he imagines must look like a slightly creepy grin curving up half his mouth, but she'll forgive him for it. She always does.

"Holy mother of Cetra!" she breathes, jumping a good foot in the air when she notices him in the threshold.

His smirk widens when she presses her hand to her heart, the wide-eyed look of prey leaving her face almost as soon as it arrives. He subtly appraises her form before blanking his expression entirely.

"Cloud!" She releases breathy laughter and hugs her arms around herself as she takes a step toward him. "What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?"

Her face is flushed with life and probably embarrassment, and he can't imagine her looking any more gorgeous.

"Just admiring. Don't mind me," he says slowly, and then nods. "Are those new?" He follows her fingers tucking her hair behind her ear, showing off her new earrings.

"You like?" she asks with a smirk of her own, smoothing her hands down her naked torso.

"Honestly?" he asks, and she nods emphatically. "I'm really not that interested." It's a complete lie, of course. They look stellar on her – everything does, including that bikini she's wearing – and he's _always_ interested in her. Her face falls for a moment, but he drops his arms and moves in closer, sliding his palms down her arms until his hands meet hers. "Let's find you another pair together. My treat."

**-x-**

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**Author's notes: **This drabble is dedicated to Cali (Clowdy Flower/Caliipso). It takes place during Cloud and Aerith's journey together in FFVII – either before the date or just after. You decide. Whichever it is, it's just fluffy good fun. ^_^

Also, if you think Cloud is OOC, it's because it's my belief that when he's alone with Aerith he let's down his guard and is less shy. Hell, in the game he even laughs and jokes with her (only her). I think the boy can crack a smile (or a smirk) in her presence . . . and maybe subtly appraise her. ^_~


	7. Twisted

_So, this sort of turned into a monologue, but you get to see the inner workings of Sephiroth's twisted mind during 'the' death scene._

* * *

**Twisted**

What are you waiting for?

She's vulnerable, on her knees right in front of you. Take her. Take her now! Do what you were born to do – what you were created for.

Conscience? No, you have no conscience, just like you have no will of your own. There is only _me_, and you are made of my sin, Cloud. My sin. And she – she is just a thing, a means to an end. A woman made of man's rib.

You still deny me? How foolish of you. You have only made it harder on yourself, and on her.

So be it, then. Let her finish her little prayer. Let her call on Holy. It does not matter. She cannot stop the inevitable. She cannot change us—

. . .

What, you did not expect this? Your denial gave me permission, and so I entered her from behind. Were you as excited as I when you watched the sword slice through her virginity and all your will to compromise?

Ha ha ha! Do not play the martyr with me. You embarrass yourself.

Again with these feelings of yours. You love her? _Love_? You think you can feel? You think you are human? Normal? You cannot even tell where _you _end and where _I_ begin!

Revenge, now? Against whom? _Me_?

You are pathetic. You seek retribution for what, a lost love? You cannot love.

If she knew how much you 'loved' her, she would have run away. She would have renounced her affections, for how could she have possibly loved someone like _you_? You are a shadow and a lie. If she knew what you were capable of. Who you truly are—

You are my puppet, Cloud!

Oh, yes, a puppet. I will take everything away from you. Everything you hold dearest. You will have nothing left. No one.

You will be forever alone, like me.

* * *

**Author's notes: **So, this didn't quite turn out how I had expected. Originally, it was far more disturbing. You can see bits of the rape metaphor throughout, and in this version it's toned down. I'm not sure if this end result is what I wanted, but it does (in my opinion) give off a twisted, mental vibe, which is what I was going for. Plus, it sort of supports my theory of Sephiroth existing in Cloud's conscience (or at least his subconsciousness). I hope it doesn't disappoint. I tried something new. Who knows if it worked. ^_~


	8. With A Heavy Heart

_From Cloud's PoV . . ._

* * *

**With A Heavy Heart**

He is totally, unflinchingly, and desperately in love with her and _god, oh god, oh god_, anything but this to make him realise—

She's lying motionless in his arms, her head limp and rolling onto his shoulder. He cradles her close, listening for a heartbeat that isn't there. There's so much blood. It pools around his knees and soaks through the fabric of her dress, staining his hands underneath. Staining them with guilt and regret. He doesn't even realise that he's trembling, causing her body to shake in his arms, and he tries desperately not to cry. He wants this all to be a dream so badly that he would tear out his own heart to make it so.

Cid's great heavy hand is on his shoulder, and he's saying something that Cloud doesn't hear. Won't hear. All he can do is clutch his lover's hand against his cheek and touch his forehead to hers, willing her back to life. Never has he felt something so soul-annihilating. Never has he felt so hollow.

Suddenly, someone's beside him, talking softly in his ear, tugging at his sleeve. Another's clutching his arm, sobbing sorrowfully. He hears nothing, sees nothing. There's just him and her and the ugly truth: Aerith is gone, taken away from him. _Stolen_. His worst fears are realised, and he feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. A part of him has just died.

She's gone . . .

With a heavy heart, he carries her to the tranquil waters. The wash of ice and acid through his veins sets his nerves on fire, and he cannot imagine anything else destroying him more completely than losing her. It's a pain that can never be soothed. And it kills him to be the one who has to put her to rest like this, but there is nothing, _nothing_ in this world like the agony of leaving her behind.

Holding her close, he feels the sun on his back, sees it reflecting in the water – reflecting images of them together. It is too bright, too stark and eerie, and it's wrong. His sadness turns to anger and he threatens the heavens themselves. How dare the sun shine? How dare the breeze mock her death by playing on his skin like laughter? Like everything is all right when it's not. It's not!

He says a prayer, his first, and lets her go. She sinks into the abyss, leaving him behind, and his heavy heart can no longer bear the burden. It breaks. He will never hear her laughter again. Never touch her skin. Never see her smile.

She is gone.

She is gone.

She is gone . . . and he will forever be alone.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Yes, this was sad. Yes, it even gutted me a bit to write it, but I promise fluff next.


	9. Cared For

_From Aerith's PoV . . . _

* * *

**Cared For**

She must be dreaming. This is just far too bizarre to be reality. She would laugh at him if she had the energy, or if the effort wouldn't make her cough up her insides. Instead, she holds it in and ends up coughing anyway from the strain.

"Stop dying over there!" he calls from her mother's tiny kitchen. "I'm doing this for _your_ health, not mine."

He sounds so disgruntled and looks so out of place that this time Aerith has to laugh. She simply cannot help herself, sick or not.

"I never pegged you for the domestic type, Cloud," she croaks past a weak smile, clearing her throat. "This is new and exciting information to me." He doesn't even need to turn around for her to know that he's rolling his eyes.

There's clanging and a crash and she thinks he may have broken something from the swearing under his breath, but waking up to extra blankets piled on top of her and him cooking in her mother's kitchen is more than worth the eventual clean-up. Thankfully her mother was out of town.

"You act like it's a wonder that I know how to use a stove," he says sarcastically, putting the steaming soup down on the side table and sitting beside her badger den of blankets on the divan. It smells fantastic, but the thought of food right now just makes her want to retch. "We camped a lot in SOLDIER, Aerith. Had to cook our own food. How else do you think I've survived this long?"

She thinks on it for a moment and smiles. "Sephiroth doubled as a domestic servant?"

Cloud's eyes widen in shock and then he closes them, shaking his head as he lets out a snort of laughter. "You're terrible."

She laughs with him, a sick coughing laugh that quickly escalates to a fit. He sits her up and gently pats her back. Reaching over, he picks the soup mug off the table and wraps a dishcloth securely around the base before handing it to her. She smiles her thanks and takes the soup.

This is a side of Cloud that she has never seen before, and it makes her heart swell that he has allowed her in as far as he has, if only inch by inch. It is moments like these that she sees the real Cloud, the insecure yet loving boy who only wants to do good.

"I don't know," Aerith says, coughing again, and Cloud tips the mug to her lips, indicating that she should drink despite her protesting stomach. "I figured you for a typical bachelor living out of bars and take-out menus."

He offers her one of those rare smiles of his and leans over, lightly kissing her forehead. It is an innocent gesture, yet it seems far more intimate than a kiss on the forehead should be.

"Ye of little faith, Aerith," he says, smiling into her hair before he pulls back.

She burrows against his side, and he puts an arm around her shoulders. Sighing contently, holding her homemade soup, Aerith finds herself wishing that she got sick more often. How fortunate it would be, indeed.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Fluff overload! The timeline for this drabble? Think of it like the Costa del Sol drabble. It can take place before or after their date at the Golden Saucer. After all, Aerith was with the group for a while before she was killed. She was bound to get a cold, of which no potion could cure, and Cloud would have to take care of her. ^_~


End file.
